Unexpected Assets
by Child of Loki
Summary: Nell Jones is about to learn exactly what it takes to be a spy. The question is whether her partner for the undercover operation will prove more of a distraction than the support she needs. Nell/Callen. Sort of Sequel to 'Pep Talk'
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS Los Angeles or its characters…**

 **Author's Note: This is a sequel to the one-shot** _ **Pep Talk**_ **, which you do not have to have read (what happened in that short fic is somewhat revisited/described here). I really liked Pep Talk as a stand-alone, but I had written more to that fic, and now that I've rewatched my favorite Nell episodes and reread some fics, I'm feeling inspired by this one.**

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Espionage was not sexy. At least, that was what she'd been taught in those undercover training courses at Quantico. It wasn't martinis and tuxedos and coy wordplay... fast cars and cool gadgetry. Except, apparently, it was. Tonight, it was all of those things for Nell Jones and her team.

Oh, god, the OSP boys cleaned up _nice_. And by 'nice' she meant 'yes please, I'll take one. No, make that two.' Admittedly now she was extremely biased by a kiss she just couldn't seem to get out of her brain or the tingling residual sensation off from her lips, but she had to say G Callen worked that classic tuxedo to a degree that would've made James Bond martini-olive-green with envy. Hetty's tailors were absolute geniuses (Well, besides fitting to excessive degrees the skin tight monstrosity Nell herself sported). The boys were the epitome of sexy, their jackets squaring broad shoulders, tapering to fit waists, and falling at just the precise length so as not to entirely obscure the very shapely bottoms being blatantly hugged but not strangled by superbly cut trousers.

Kensi was supermodel- no, better, more real than supermodel- gorgeous. Her stunning features and figure clad in the sleek, sparkly midnight blue gown complimented the attractive set of men. Nell felt... out of place. Severely out of place, even after Callen had tried to reassure her. How exactly he thought putting his hands on her body (with just the flimsy layer of silk protecting her bare skin), and then sticking his tongue in her mouth would help ease the anxieties bouncing around her skull, was beyond her. But she did have to give him credit. She hadn't thought about how she looked in the dress until they'd walked through the door into the fancy hall hosting the gala, filled to the brim with thousand-dollar suits and ten-thousand dollar dresses. Not to mention, the million-dollar jewelry and plastic surgery jobs.

She was the most petite woman there, but not the skinniest, for certain. The three-inch heels didn't do much when every other woman could throw on equally high or even higher stilettos. Apparently, leggy, buxom twigs were in vogue, despite all the hype about 'nerd chic'. But whatever. Nell Jones had a job to do. And she had to do it while appearing to 'schmooze' with the hob-nobs. As Callen said, pretend that she belonged and they would buy it.

Speaking of, the blue-eyed, sexiest kisser (she could now confirm, at least in her life's experience) reappeared from the crowd, offering her a... _martini_. She successfully fought down the urge to ask him 'Shaken, not stirred?', which would be precisely the sort of thing that screamed 'outsider'. Besides, Bond didn't drink authentic martinis, which hers looked to be. Nor was hers probably an actual alcoholic beverage. One of the rules... well, more guidelines really... _Don't_ drink on assignment. He'd probably requested a 'virgin' variation -presumptuous of him, although technically apt in every regard. Oh, she'd messed around with guys before, just had never... There wasn't any specific reason, just the way things worked out. She wondered briefly if he would be put off by her sexual status. But then, he wasn't really interested, anyway, was he?

Oh, crap. That was the wrong line of thinking. She was Marion, the wife of Geoffrey Copeland. And they'd been married for three years. Must have done it hundreds, thousands of times -who wouldn't, with those blue eyes staring into her? Reflexively, Nell took a sip of her drink, which turned out to be precisely what she needed and probably a mistake. Callen had actually given her a full-blood martini. And a rather dirty one, at that, the salty olive brine pickling her taste buds and cutting the sweet vermouth.

He grinned at her look of surprise. Bastard. Sexy, _sexy bastard_. His eyes seemed to say 'I thought you could loosen up a little', which was entirely true. And then as if to test her, he said, "Just the way you like it, my fawn. Extra dirty."

 _Fawn?_ They didn't discuss using pet names. She scowled internally, a scowl that was entirely Hetty Lange in nature. Then she said, primly, because she was 'high class', "I think you're confusing my tastes with your own."

He chuckled, his eyes sparkling a little. Nell could tell the chatting couples just behind him had paused in conversation to eavesdrop.

"I've never heard you complain," he said, a lusty sort of edge to his voice.

"Ladies don't complain. They just grin and take it."

She took another, longer sip of her martini, tasting the gin on her tongue briefly before swallowing and feeling the warmth burn down to her stomach, and further. Or was that from something else?

"That's what I love about you," he said, facetious grin still plastered across his face. "You're just so _accommodating_."

He stepped in even closer, his free hand -the one not holding his own martini- sliding around her waist until he had his arm completely encircling her middle as he leaned down and nuzzled her ear. Gooseflesh broke out on the skin of her neck that was left exposed by the elaborate updo her generally lank locks had been tortured into holding.

"Stay calm and don't let on, but there's a man to my three o'clock who's been staring pretty hard at you," he whispered, faking that he was kissing her neck. "I think he might be our contact. Are you ready?"

She placed one hand on the back of his head as she quietly replied in the affirmative. And then he didn't fake-kiss her neck again. He actually pressed his warm, surprisingly soft lips to her flesh, making her gasp before she gripped the nape of his neck firmly and tugged his head away from her shoulder.

"If you'd wanted to snuggle, we should have stayed home," she said. "You're the one who dragged me here, remember? So behave yourself."

He straightened, laughed, suggested that she needed another drink, and disappeared with her empty glass (Was it really empty? Callen must have performed some sort of jedi trick when she wasn't looking because she certainly couldn't have drunk it all).

She did a slow turn on her heel, not an easy feat to stay on one's feet in such high, strappy shoes, and a slight buzz in her head. Kensi and Deeks were a few yards away, mixing in with the crowd, flirting and gossiping... basically mingling. Sam was blending in by leaning against the bar in an attempt to not appear so big as to stand out amongst the waifishly thin populace in the hall. Nell pretended, and then really did admire a few of the women's gowns. Her own was quite lovely... well, would be, on someone else. She just was too large in the rib cage and the hip, especially in proportion to her height. A taller girl could rock the hell out of those kind of curves. She just felt frumpy and awkward.

There was a light tap on her shoulder, and she turned round, expecting -dare she admit, _anticipating_ \- G Callen. It was not her blue-eyed pseudo-husband, but rather a swarthy looking man with dark, rakish hair, an average but not unattractive face and lively brown eyes. He, like every other male in the place, was dressed in a tuxedo. Not as suave as her boys, for certain, but plenty of women would give him a second glance. She gave him an inquisitive look.

"I couldn't help but notice your lovely brooch," he said, a slight Italian accent lending a melodic quality to his speech.

"Oh, thank you," Nell said, looking down at the piece of jewelry pinned just below her left collarbone as if admiring it herself before meeting the dark eyes fixed intently on her face. "It was a gift from my aunt."

"How very generous of her."

Code given. And acknowledged. This was their seller, and likely the thief himself, who they'd spent months online luring into their trap, establishing the background for their aliases, gaining his attention and finally outbidding all the other 'buyers' for his product and arranging this meeting at the McCarthy Museum's exhibition opening.

"Would you like a private tour of the exhibit before it's officially opened?" he asked. His eyes did a slow, unguardedly lascivious wander down and then back up her body. Indignation rose up hard and fast in Nell, making her blush. She'd never been so blatantly physically appraised before. "I have special access, since three of the pieces are on loan from my collection."

Was he hitting on her? Maybe he wasn't their target and just a horny jerk attracted to what he thought was an easy target -the less attractive, the more grateful they should be for attention, or what was the theory behind that? If he was their target why would he be coming on to her, for he knew the buyers were a married couple, a rich robotics company entrepeneur and his younger, technical savvy wife. She had to take the risk, but not without Callen, if only because he would be absolutely furious if she wandered off with a potentially dangerous unknown element.

"That would be wonderful," Nell said. "My husband loves Tonalism."

"Oh, and here he is." Thankfully, Callen took that precise moment to reappear, squeezing through the loudly babbling crowd. She accepted the refreshed martini and a peck on the cheek. "I was wondering if you had gotten lost."

"Never. Not when my compass always points home to you," he said, giving her a ridiculous grin to complement the level of sickening, cheesy lovey-dovey talk. She let herself openly scoff and roll her eyes, looking to the stranger to provide a sympathetic look, which he did. Charmed. Hook. Line. And sinker. Take that, leggy, buxom bimbos. Nerd Girl for the Spy Win.

She returned her attention to Callen, "My new friend, Mr..."

"Farinelli." Yup. Definitely Italian. The man held out his hand and Callen shook it genially. And then he turned his dark eyes on Nell, and she offered her own hand, but rather than shake it, the Italian brought it to his lips, ghosting a kiss over the fake wedding rings Hetty had given her to wear. "But you may call me Tullio."

She felt Callen stiffen, the hand that had casually been hovering at the small of her back tense. _Men_. She wasn't by any means 'his'. Nor had he ever given any sign (besides that kiss, which was all trickery to get her to do her job, anyway) that he wanted her to be. So what was with the 'possessiveness'?

Character. He was just staying in character.

"Nice to meet you Mr. Farinelli," Callen said, his hand sliding all the way around her waist to rest on her hip. _Jeez._ Why didn't he just insist that they whip out their penises and she could measure for them?

Nell took a sip of her refreshed martini, discovered it was virgin, and was vastly disappointed. _That's what he said_. And then decided she'd had enough alcohol, anyway. Although, it really hadn't been that much. Not enough to get her drunk. But it was easier to blame outside sources for her ridiculous thoughts than the fact that she was likely trying to distract herself from her insane level of anxiety about the operation.

Why did she have to play such a central role? She'd never been so nervous before, but she'd always just been backing up her team in their operations. This time, months of work depended heavily upon her ability to pull this off. But she wasn't alone. She could do this. She could do this.

Slapping Callen lightly in the chest with the back of her hand, she said, "Play nice."

And then she used the big, dewy doe eyes on Farinelli. She may not have many assets for charm or seduction, but she knew to use what she did have.

"Tullio has offered to show us the exhibit before the rush."

They all knew there was no rush to view the actual exhibit at museum openings. Everyone came for the schmoozing, alcohol, to be seen in their stupid expensive clothing and to show off the results of their latest cosmetic surgery, trendy diets and personal trainers.

"Has he?" Callen asked. "That would be fantastic. I hear there's a Whistler."

"Oh yes," Farinelli said. "That is one of mine that I am loaning for the duration of the exhibition."

And with that, Callen faked some more art connoisseur jargon, to a degree that had Nell seriously suspecting it was no act and the extremely 'salt of the earth' veneer of the agent obscured some fascinating inner depths.

Yes, it was the mysterious nature that made the man so damned alluring, she decided, as she leaned against him for support. Damned high heels. Or maybe it was the way he smelled. Mm... nice.

 _Focus, Nell. Focus on the job._

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 **A/N: Will Nell be able to keep it together and pull off the mission successfully? Or will Callen prove more distraction than assistance? And what exactly are they after?**

 **A/N2: This is definitely more the sarcastic/snarky Nell of old… Not sure why they've toned her down so much in the series. The character dynamic does suffer from it. And if their excuse is that they're maturing the character, then I'd like to see her given more responsibilities/larger roles in operations. Or I'll just have to rewatch old episodes and ignore the second half of season six. Here's hoping season seven is better.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Not trying to be a tease by posting the first chapter and then failing to follow through in a timely manner. I'm just easily distracted by other projects ;-) I will try to get the next installment up sooner, inspiration/time permitting. But for now, enjoy…?**

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Farinelli simply flashed his VIP pass at the ridiculously goon-like guards, acknowledging one by name, which Nell suspected was also on loan by the Italian. And by 'on loan' she meant 'by insistence' to accompany the thief's precious artwork. She wondered if said 'artwork' was likely stolen, but surely it was beyond audacious for the man to loan it to a museum, flaunt it in front of the entire world if it was. That was just begging to be caught. And if this man were the infamous Marten, then he was far too good to do something so stupid. Although, the thief who was known more for intellectual property theft and corporate espionage than art and antiquities robberies, was notoriously brazen.

And wasn't it just more evidence that this Farinelli was him, setting up a black market deal during a museum gala?

The hall was completely empty, although everything already seemed perfectly set for the exhibit's initial viewing. Paintings all hung with precision straightness, evenly spaced. Okay, admittedly, the sight of the meticulous execution gave her OCD heart joy on an embarrassingly deep level. Was it bad that she paid more attention to the mathematically optimized physical arrangement of the exhibit than to the actual works on display?

Probably. But that was something to ponder at a different time, not in the middle of an undercover operation to bust a highly successful, previously untouchable thief, who'd stolen top secret data from a number of military contracted R&D groups. Who was about to sell their aliases some innovative robotics technology that hadn't even hit the desk of its parent company's CEO yet... and buy himself a one-way ticket to federal prison. Well, if the likely dozens of extradition requests that would doubtless pour in from other nations didn't manage to take priority over the US government's own charges.

As far as they knew, The Marten hadn't killed anyone... At least no bodies had been directly linked to his trail. Then again, Nell had run the complete profile on the elusive thief. And she suspected that some seemingly random deaths were the result of the man handing off persons who no longer proved useful to types whose names were synonymous with murder.

Oh, god. Was the outwardly suave Italian planning a similar fate for the Copelands (aka Blue-Eyed Super Agent and his Nerd Girl Sidekick) after he got his money?

That didn't seem an especially good way to do business... to stay in business anyway... murdering clients.

But even so, Nell found herself instinctively pressing closer against her husband-protector-mentor-partner-yes-that-was-it- _partner_ 's side. The man was solid and warm, and exuded confidence, which was quite reassuring, even though she hated being dependent on anyone else, especially to provide her with the backbone required to get the job done. Maybe she couldn't ever be a 'femme fatale, distract them with her looks' sort of spy. But she had the determination and strength to persevere, damn it, to accomplish any mission assigned to her. And she was going to prove it. To her team, to Callen, to Hetty, to herself.

"These are all beautiful pieces of artwork," Nell said, removing herself from her cozy spot against Callen's side with his hand a firm and comforting support against her lower back. Time to stand on her own two feet... and hopefully not in a tipsy manner.

Farinelli grinned at her, his dark eyes flashing with amused curiosity as he studied her intently.

"But my husband and I are really connoisseurs of a different variety of... _creativity_ ," she said.

"I see," Farinelli said.

Nell was desperately tempted to glance back at Callen, for him to confirm that she was doing okay, to compensate for the dwindling liquid courage that dirty martini had provided. But she stood fast, adhered to her role. She, Marion Copeland, was bartering to purchase stolen technological specs, showing her source that they were serious about it, that she wasn't to be messed with. Such a woman wouldn't look to her husband for assistance. She'd take matters into her own hands. She was confident. She ran half of a burgeoning robotics company, which promised to be worth several 100 million dollars by the end of the fiscal year... according to the falsified financial reports Nell and Eric had forged.

Apparently satisfied by something he'd seen in her, The Marten gave her an appreciative smile.

"I think I may be able to show the both of you something more to your tastes." He took Nell's hand and she tried not start at the unexpected gesture, as he threaded it through his arm, leaving it to rest on the crisp black sleeve of his tuxedo jacket. The man tossed a nonchalant glance over his shoulder at his escort's husband. "If you'll come with me."

As they were led out of the exhibit hall through a door marked 'employees only' and into a contrastingly dimly lit grey corridor, Nell couldn't help but ponder the exchange that occurred, and wondered yet again, what if this wasn't their mark? What if she'd just unintentionally propositioned some random Italian playboy into having a threesome with Callen and herself in- oh, the curator's office.

The room was also dimly lit... disconcertingly so... mood lighting, perhaps?

 _God, stop being so ridiculous, Nell._ She scolded herself, tried to focus on the mission. But she really couldn't help it. Thinking about _impossible_ and _silly_ scenarios was her best defense against the anxiety born of thinking of _possible_ and _disastrous_ scenarios.

Farinelli flipped on a light switch, revealing precisely what one would expect of a curator's office... all of the usual managerial trappings, plus prints of famous works of art hanging on the walls and more books than the substantial amount of shelving could contain. The door closed with a quiet 'thwump' behind them, the lock engaging with a 'click' that sent Nell's heart racing.

They were locked in. Locked in with a potential-thief-murderer... Or a potential randy Italian... depending on how one looked at the situation. She wondered if maybe she should inform their new acquaintance -before he tried something that earned him a black eye (or worse)- that Callen didn't swing that way. Her eyes automatically went to the man in question. He looked rather well-groomed in his current state (she sort of liked him a bit more on the scruffy side, to be honest) and whatever sort of light fixture the curator had opted for was currently making his steel blue eyes look as if they might just pop out of his head... or hypnotize anyone who looked directly into them. He was sexy as hell at the moment. Hell, he _was_ sex.

Maybe he did swing that way? When the occasion called for it? Or if not, and this _was_ a threesome, would she really have to be the center of attention? That didn't make her feel like a Lucky Girl at all...

 _Stop it, Nell._

She blinked, tore her gaze away from Callen who had begun to frown a little in concern at her while Farinelli fiddled with one of the desk drawers, unlocking it and removing a laptop, which he proceeded to setup on the desk.

"You have the money ready to transfer, yes?" he asked, dark eyes still focused on the screen.

"Yes," Callen said, giving Nell's shoulder a squeeze as he mouthed 'you okay?'.

She nodded. 'Yes.'

"We've set up an account in the Caymans. My wife will give you all of the pertinent access data. And you can transfer the money to whichever account you wish."

"Excellent," Farinelli said, pulling the office chair away from the desk, and gesturing for Nell to take the seat in front of the laptop. "My dear."

Nell moved to do as instructed, but Callen stopped her by grabbing her arm. She gave him a startled look before she hastily schooled her often too-expressive face. She had been practicing. In her comfort zone, in ops, she had the reputation of being downright Hetty-like in stoicism. But she didn't have all that much practice when the adrenaline was flooding her veins and her nerves were high. But this was one way to do it, she supposed. Learn by doing…

"First, we need to verify the merchandize, of course," Callen said.

"Of course." Farinelli grinned broadly. Nell tried not to respond to the admittedly charming smile. Nope. She was not impressed by the suave Italian thief. After all, she had Mr. Sexy Blue Eyes for a 'husband' and this was a business deal.

Their illicitly-obtained technologies broker stepped back when it was obvious that 'Mr. Copeland' wasn't going to leave his wife's side, giving the overprotective man room to escort Nell around the desk himself and ease her down into the chair like he were a Victorian gentleman handing a lady up into a carriage. Nell suppressed the giggle, because really, it wasn't entirely a superfluous gesture. Not with heels that made her feel as wobbly as a complete rube strapped into circus-level stilts. And a dress that was so skin tight that the way she normally moved was a practical impossibility.

Ah, but here was her comfort zone... parked in front of a laptop.

"Are the specs on the hard drive or..."

Farinelli produced a thumb drive and plugged it into the computer. Sure enough when she opened one of the files, schematics popped up. She was no engineer, but she recognized some of the parts and functions outlined in the blueprints, the basic elements having similarities with UAV components. But what she was really looking for were the identification numbers the original designers had embedded into the files like a watermark. Of course, it didn't prevent rivals from stealing schematics and simply using them to design their own 'innovative' technology.

She perused several different files, locating the ID codes and confirming them against those they'd hacked from the company (better than asking for them to hand over that information and alert a potential mole about their undercover operation). She didn't even need to surreptitiously open a link to the OSP's network and have Eric check. One of the reasons she'd been brought on the mission in such a central role... Her eidetic memory.

"Looks good to me," she informed her 'husband' with a smile, adding on a little extra enthusiasm to sell it. "We could have this up in production within a few weeks."

"Good job, Fawn," he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek as a cover to whisper into her com, "Merchandize confirmed. Close in."

Nell closed the windows, stalling as they waited to hear their team mates' confirmation. She opened a secure internet browser, navigating to the fake bank page that she and Eric had set up, just in case they had to 'transfer the money' before the operation was concluded. She put in the user ID and password they'd setup.

When she'd signed in and there was still no response over coms, she looked up to find a brief flash of concern flit across Callen's face. Maybe they hadn't received his order to converge on the bad guys?

Callen wandered off, studying a shelf, perhaps trying to reach Sam and the others again. Either way it was enough to draw away Farinelli's attention from the laptop screen, and Nell quickly responded to the site's little 'live help' bubble that had popped up, instructing Eric to alert the others. But before she could finish, press enter and send the message, the laptop was slammed shut, catching the tips of her fingers. Nell blamed the martini for her slower-than-normal reflexes.

"Ouch!" She turned to glare at the man who'd just bruised, if not broken her fingertips, but Callen was already on Farinelli, slamming him up against the wall with his arm across the man's throat.

"What the hell was that for?" He hazarded a glance at Nell and she tried to school the pained expression doubtless blatant on her face as she shook her throbbing fingers.

Farinelli shouted something in... _French?_

Wasn't he Italian just five seconds ago? No time to consider it, for the lock clicked and then there were two large - _very_ large, like 'Sam Hanna' large- men using up much of the little space and air in the curator's office. Nell rose to her feet, instinctively moved towards Callen until her back was pressed up against his. She was facing the large -god, so large- intruders. They'd have to get through her first. Then Callen, to get to what she presumed was their boss.

Was this the time to identify themselves? And hope the fact that they were federal agents deter the menacing -god, so very _menacing_ \- brutes. Or should they try to maintain cover?

Farinelli shouted something further in French, along the lines of 'subdue them'. Although, because of the negligible serving of alcohol or the terror she was attempting to suppress, Nell couldn't be sure of her translation. Also, there was a very large man suddenly coming at her.

She kicked him in the shin (her stupid tight dress prevented her from raising her leg enough to strike him in the groin), and he only grunted and continued to come at her, causing her to yelp as she was picked up off her stupid high-heels and held in a bear hug, unable to go for the knife strapped to her thigh.

"Let her go." Callen's voice was commanding and as threatening as he could conjure. And boy, could the agent do threatening. Unfortunately, it apparently wasn't convincing enough for the Marten. Or his goons. The other large man promptly attacked Callen just as Farinelli elbowed the agent who had him in a choke hold in the stomach.

"What's the meaning of this?" Callen asked, struggling now that the roles were reversed and he was the one being held with an arm across his throat by a man to rival Sam Hanna in bulk and strength. "My wife was just about to transfer your money. Don't you wanna get paid?"

"Oh, I'm going to get paid." The Italian accent was replaced by a French patois. What the hell? Who the hell was this man? Farinelli certainly wasn't his real name, was it? Lies!

Nell frantically sought out the senior agent's blue eyes. They were as steady as ever, although there was a distinctly angry flare to their cerulean depths. Callen could probably get free, maybe take out the one goon, but he obviously was stalling for their backup to arrive. Because of her.

Damn the man! Now he was going all protective on her? Several times he'd accidentally left her in dangerous predicaments, entirely on her own (Eric, god love him, could not be counted in the impending violence sort of scenarios), and was obviously feeling guilty about it. But in the end, Nell had proven herself, hadn't she?

She stared pointedly back at her supervising field agent, her _partner_ for this operation.

She. Could. Do. This.

He gave her an imperceptible shake of his head. _No. Wait for back up._

Nell glared.

Their little exchange hadn't gone unnoticed by Farinelli the Frenchmen, or whoever the hell he was. He cleared his throat, stepping in between his former-buyers-now-prisoners.

"If we are done with our little connubial silent conversation, it's time we are off," he said, causing Nell's brow to furrow. They hadn't been made, then. So why was he doing this? Surely it would've been easier to just go through with the deal as planned. A double-cross was doubtlessly more hassle than it was worth?! Unless, he wanted them for _something else_.

"Oh, and your friends will not be joining us."

Callen's eyes widened imperceptibly, and Nell knew her own had just bugged out of her head. Shit! How many goons did this man have? Had they gotten to Sam, Kensi and Deeks? Surely it would take a couple dozen highly-trained ninjas to subdue those three together.

"We know about your little spy ear buds-"

"Earwigs," Nell automatically corrected and then promptly shut her mouth. Callen actually laughed at her nervous tick of interrupting people.

"Yes, fine, earwigs." Still with the French accent. Maybe it reflected his true identity. "We've been blocking the signal."

This little tidbit of information was all Super Agent G Callen needed to snap him into action. There was no back up. It was down to them to get out of this themselves. Nell began to struggle at the same time as her partner freed himself from his large captor's hold, and then she lost track of them as they wrestled about the room, slamming into bookcases and the desk. She herself was preoccupied with trying to kick her own captor in the balls, striking out behind her with her feet. He shifted his hold on her as she squirmed, his massive forearm slipped down to her chest, which put it in perfect range for-

"Argh!" Goon #2 cried out as she sunk her teeth into the flesh of his arm, ignoring the salty, sweaty taste of his skin as she tried her damnest to draw blood, the arm tightening its grip instead of releasing her like she wanted.

And then it was her to cry out in pain and surprise as something sharp jabbed her in the neck. It felt like a giant asshole of a mosquito had bitten her.

Definitely not a mosquito.

She blinked against her rapidly blurring vision, trying to focus on the slight, dark-haired man standing before her with a Cheshire grin, brandishing a syringe.

"What-?" She tried to speak but found that her vocal chords had already failed her. Or her brain's speech center had shut down. She was able to determine that the silence in the room had been caused by the fact that G Callen was lying in a heap on the floor. Apparently, The Marten had stung him first.

Nell's last though before she lost consciousness was how it was unfair to employ pharmaceuticals in an already unevenly matched fight.

* * *

 **A/N: Sigh… I forgot how much I like to write some Callen & Nell misadventures! Stay tuned… What is it The Marten wants? Does he know who they really are? Will the team figure out that the operation has gone sideways in time to come to their rescue?**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Well, this took way longer than I had intended to update. But I got a little stuck/bored in the middle. But finally got some renewed inspiration to finish up this now rather lengthy chapter…**

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Ugh. How much had she drank last night? Her head was pounding so badly, Nell didn't even dare risk opening her eyes until the throbbing subsided. She hadn't gotten blind drunk like this in years, not even when they'd caught a case that she wanted to obliterate from her memory. She'd learned to cope in other ways. So why had she gotten blackout, mother-of-all-hangovers intoxicated?

And god, she'd even passed out somewhere terribly uncomfortable. Her unsteady equilibrium began to inform her she was sitting up, in an uncomfortable chair, with her arms wrenched behind her -oh, shit!

She forced her eyes open, immediately squeezing them shut. Even what had appeared to be dim light stabbed her right through the retinas directly in the frontal lobe. Her temples began to pound in sympathy. But she really needed to know where she was, what was going on.

Wincing, she tried just one eye this time, squinting against the light. It was dim. It was hard to make out her surroundings. The space seemed small, but didn't _feel_ small, her groan of the Unhappy Hungover Undead achieving a slight resounding effect. Not quite an echo, but it still spoke to a larger space beyond the deep shadows and the circle of light she appeared to be sitting in... _They_ appeared to be sitting in.

Blinking, acclimatizing to the light and the fact of her unwelcome consciousness, her eyes began to focus easier and she finally saw him, just a few feet in front of her, hard to miss really, tied up to an uncomfortable-looking metal chair which she guessed was the companion of her own. She tugged her arms, but found them secured at the wrist to said unpleasant metal chair.

"Look who finally chooses to join us once more."

Nell froze, recognizing the voice, the smooth French accent, and remembering everything that had led her to this point. She hadn't drank too much. She'd had one very dirty martini provided by G Callen, who was currently looking upon her with a good deal of concern from his uncomfortable metal chair a few feet in front of her. No. The hangover was thanks to this asshole, The Marten, injecting some unknown sedative into a vein in her neck.

"And now we may truly begin." Clapping his hands together, the weasel appeared standing between them, but not obscuring Nell's sight-line to the senior agent, her partner for this operation. This operation that had gone apparently horribly awry. To what precise degree, however remained to be seen.

"What is it you want from us?" Callen asked, his voice sounded rougher than usual, like his throat was dry. Likely as dry as her own mouth felt. Doubtless a side-effect of the tranquilizer. "We were going to pay you. Everything was going to the plan we agreed upon."

"Liar!" The Marten whirled on the agent, obviously even surprising the man who'd been in this sort of situation dozens, if not hundreds of times. (Why had she chosen this career, again?) She winced when the smaller man's hand struck Callen in the side of the face with a loud _smack_. She bit down on the urge she had to scream at their abductor, insult and berate him for striking a bound and (temporarily) defenseless man.

"You brought along some uninvited guests with you to the party." He'd turned, staring directly into Nell with his dark eyes. For the supposed angry outburst she'd just witnessed, the man seemed surprisingly calm underneath it all. Was the 'psycho' act just precisely that? Another act? Italian playboy billionaire... French black market dealer... Psychotic and paranoid kidnapper...

"I don't know what you're talking about," Callen said, his voice even. Like Nell, he must have expected the weasel to strike him again. What he did, however, took them both by surprise. His hand flew out impossibly quickly, and before she could even realize what was happening, there was a sharp pain shooting through her face and her head was jerked to the side with the force of the blow that caused her teeth to cut the inside of her cheek, the metallic taste of blood flooding her mouth.

 _What the fuck?!_ is what she wanted to scream. But somehow, she managed to hold the reaction in, meeting those dark eyes once more as she spat the blood out onto the floor. She hadn't meant to hit his shiny black shoe, but it was an added bonus that made her grin.

This whole situation was so insane, she found herself fighting a fit of the giggles as much as her anger and fear.

"Fine, maintain that falsehood, if you wish," the Marten said, turning his attention back to Callen after throwing up his hands in over-exaggerated frustration and disbelief at Nell's reaction to being smacked across the face. "But either way, whatever communications devices or trackers you had on your persons will not provide any interruptions this time."

What was that supposed to mean? Their earwigs were obviously gone. But Hetty must have put GPS chips in all of their accessories, and likely the clothing _-Oh_. It was then that Nell finally realized she was wearing only a pair of standard teal hospital scrubs at least two sizes too large for her. And so was Callen. Well, his seemed to fit better. So... _Ew_. She suddenly felt more than a little sick to her stomach, because somebody had stripped her entirely naked and redressed her. Who knows what they'd done in between... Oh god, she really was going to be sick.

"Hey!" Callen shouted. "Untie her."

The Marten gave a snort of ironic laughter.

"I'm serious. Look at her, at how pale she is. What did you give her? It's obviously making her sick. It looks like she's going to throw up. You don't want to clean up that mess, do you?"

Nell milked the churning sensation in her stomach, trying to capture it and make it read on her bloodless face as their captor took a wary step closer to examine her better.

"Bah, this one, she's always pale. There is no difference from before."

"Fine, see if I care if she vomits all over those shiny shoes of yours," Callen said.

The Marten sighed theatrically.

"She will need her hands to put in her codes, anyway." He gestured sharply and one of the two thugs from earlier appeared, walking around Nell with a knife that made her exceedingly nervous, for it could just as easily be used to slice her throat open as sever the plastic tie binding her wrists. And she would never see it coming. Just the flash of shock and horror on Callen's face -and maybe rage, if he did care about her as much as that supposedly motivational kiss had belied- as she quickly bled to death. Or did the victim suffocate, drown in blood when their throat was slashed?

Faking her nausea was really not a problem.

A wave of relief washed through her shoulders as her wrists sprung free, and she clutched at her stomach, only partially pretending at the melodramatic act.

Was it the ugly one? Or the uglier one who had peeled that slinky dress off from her, and the fancy underwear, complete with garter belt and thigh-high stockings? Running his large, brutish hands over her legs, or cupping her bare breasts, or...

She doubled over, successfully disgorging the contents of her stomach onto the cold, stained cement floor while she heard Callen pleading with their captors, maintaining the facade of their aliases. So, she was to play this like they were still the Copelands, maintain cover.

"If you're not going to help my wife, then let me. You've already proven we're no match for you and your _friends_. Just untie me, Let me help her."

"She's fine, Mr. Copeland"

Well, so much for freeing Callen, too. But honestly, they'd already tried and failed to beat this same set of bad guys. A different tactic was obviously needed. But bright side, at the very least she'd left some DNA behind for their team to find... if they even knew where to look for them. She could only assume the vacant warehouse was a temporary set up. The Copelands were obviously not going to be held there long. Maybe just long enough for a money transfer...

Yup. Definitely still after the money. The money they didn't really have and she was relying on Eric to fake for them. She was ushered by a large hand on the back of her neck, over to another metal chair sitting before a folding table with a different laptop ready and waiting.

"Let us try this again, shall we?" The Marten, said, coming to stand behind her, hovering over her shoulder. How was she supposed to alert Eric now, ask for reinforcements to be sent, when the sleazy Faux-Italian-Possibly-Frenchman was watching every keystroke she made?

She stalled.

"How do I know you're not just going to kill us after I transfer the money?" she asked, not even remotely having to fake the fearful tremor in her voice.

"You don't."

She stiffened, looked to Callen, hopefully with the expression of a terrified wife looking to her husband in desperation. Not necessarily for help, because he obviously couldn't help her, but in affection. She did care about him. And admired and respected him. And he was damned attractive. Maybe it was enough to sell it, to buy them both just a few more minutes if they could play up for some sympathy.

Another exaggerated sigh. Very French. Like the world was an exasperating trial. But thus was life.

"I have no reason to harm you once you have done as I ask," he said, pulling Nell's chair away from the table with the screeching sound of the metal legs dragging against the concrete so that he could crouch before her and look up into her face, his dark eyes softening along with his expression. Damn, he was fricken good.

"You'll just let us go?" she asked in as timid and pathetic a voice as she could muster, seeing the corner of Callen's mouth twitch in amusement from where he sat a few yards away. The man was completely insane! How wasn't he absolutely terrified inside? Yes, she knew he had a great deal of self-control and the ability to compartmentalize his emotions. But finding anything in this situation funny at all? Okay, so she herself was prone to nervous fits of giggles when she was emotionally overwhelmed, but she doubted that was the case with the seasoned field agent.

"Why would I not?" The Marten gave her what was supposed to be a sympathetic smile. And Nell had to admit, it was a damned good facsimile of one. But she wasn't buying it. This man was planning to kill the Copelands and then maybe he'd shed some crocodile tears over it. "You do not know my true identity and I will be long gone by the time anyone finds you and your... _charming_ husband."

She didn't doubt that it would be a long time before they were found. The Marten obviously was good at hiding the bodies.

Nell nodded, sniffled. God, this act was hard to maintain. Probably because it was too close to how she was really feeling inside. It was actually much easier to put a brave face on and shove all the anxiety and fear down deep. Letting some of it show without succumbing to it was a tricky endeavor.

"All right?" The Marten pushed her chair back around with more ear-piercing screeching of metal on concrete, which echoed off the vast space. A large space. Smelling of... well, musty old building. Damn. If she could just quiet all of the other screaming parts of her brain, maybe she could figure out where they were being held. And then... And then what? If she couldn't get a message to Eric, what use would that information be? He'd be alerted when she started the transfer, though, accessing the fake bank website they'd set up. And even if she couldn't directly send him a message, he'd instantly start a trace, searching for their missing agents. She could maybe send some info by inputting a false username and password. He'd let her in anyway, help make it look real (she hoped).

"As soon as you have paid me, I will let you and your husband go, give you the blueprints, as well," the Frenchman said, leaning over to speak softly into her ear, his hands massaging her shoulders, which was not at all comforting. Rather its sent chills down her spine. "Because I am a man of my word."

Suave. But utter bullshit.

 _Come on, Eric. Come on!_ She chewed her lip as the busy symbol swirled, supposedly the website was processing the login attempt... aka, Eric was being alerted someone had accessed the fake site, and it was waiting for his permission to load the next page they'd created in this little web play.

"What is taking so long?" The Marten sounded... displeased.

"They use a lot of encryption to secure their web transactions," Nell lied through her teeth, hoping that her research had been correct, and The Marten was an old school grifter, of the conning people rather than hacking electronics variety.

He made no further complaint but continued to hover over her shoulder. And it was beyond unnerving. You'd think she would've gotten used to it by now, working for the team of highly-strung agents as she did. Okay, they weren't that bad, but they were high-energy people and they tended to get a little antsy when they were stuck in ops waiting for a key piece of information, or for their aliases to be generated before they could go out into the field.

Although intimidating though they could be, even Deeks on occasion, she supposed she knew they never possessed any mal-intent towards her. Not like this infamous thief (and possible murderer).

When the page finally loaded and said 'Welcome, Marion K. Copeland' Nell couldn't hide her relief, and didn't think it was necessary to try. Marion K Copeland _would_ be relieved that her login had been successful and the scary Frenchman with hired muscle, guns, and tranquilizer-filled needles didn't have any (more) reason to use any of said armory.

"Can you-Can you please give me the account number you want the money transferred into?" she asked, allowing a quaver into her voice. Not that she was finding it at all difficult to 'play' nervous and frightened 'civilian'. Nell had to face facts, she was no spy. Not really.

Unless, maybe the good spies were only ever playing variations of themselves. She thought maybe that was entirely the case. Deeks had confided in her before, about his fears that when he went under as his alter ego Max Gentry, he might get lost in the unsavory character. She had asked him why he thought his own compassionate, big-hearted personality could be overpowered by such an act. He had said because it wasn't entirely an act. The darkness came from a place deep inside of himself. It had made her look closer at all of the roles her fellow agents, her _friends_ played while undercover.

The Marten provided her with the number which she began to input into the transfer form. She hastily closed the 'livechat help' window that had popped open, knowing it was a direct line to Eric, but also knowing that her captor was well, as highly-strung as when the agents were hovering over her shoulder in ops.

"Don't transfer the money, Marion," Callen called from where he remained tied to the chair a few yards away. "He'll just kill us once he confirms it."

Callen knew as well as she did that the Marten wouldn't be able to confirm the transfer, since it was entirely fake. As soon as he called his own bank or accountant or whoever, he would know they were conning him. But it's what Geoffrey Copeland would say, and so the agent had said it, and convincingly, a tone of desperate warning in his voice with just a hint of 'I'm your husband and you'll listen to me, damn it' sternness.

The man was good. Even scared out of her wits, Nell could multitask enough to also recognize the impressive skills of the agent. Even as she willed the tracking program Eric doubtless initiated right before he cued up the 'profile' web page for her to find them and quick. Even as she finished inputting the number, asking the Marten to repeat himself several times, stalling for time. Because with her eidetic memory, she'd logged it indelibly away the first time he'd given her the information back at the museum. And there was something else she needed to do at the same time... argue with her husband.

"He'll kill us right now if we don't transfer the money," she said loudly, responding to her beloved spouse.

"So what, you're going to buy us all of a couple minutes and make him a million dollars richer?" Callen's tone was now argumentative, and she found herself instinctively responding to the needling. It was all too easy to sound like a bickering old married couple.

"Well, it's a couple minutes we wouldn't have if I followed your moronically stubborn plan," she said, turning in her chair to yell directly at her supposed husband. "What good is the money if we're dead?"

"I'm just wondering why you're going to pay the man for murdering us?!"

The expression on Callen's face was just as 'irritated husband' as his tone, but Nell noticed the minute twitching at the corner of his mouth that belied an inward smile. Was he seriously having fun right now?

If that sort of crazy was necessary for being a spy, a good undercover operative, well then, maybe it wasn't something Nell wanted to be. With the job she already did, she barely had a grip on her sanity as it was.

"God, are you really so cheap?!" Nell was really getting into it. One of her internal commentators was standing back, arms folded across her chest, eyebrows raised in an 'Amused Hetty' stance. Another was freaking out. And yet another was not at all amused by her idiocy. But still, she let Ironic Nell push on. This was a classic married couple argument, was it not? Besides, the Marten was watching the exchange with something akin to shocked disbelief. And the more time they could buy, the more likely it was that Eric would get a fix on their location and send the backup they, well, desperately needed.

Callen rolled his eyes, then looked to the Marten for assistance. The old male solidarity 'aren't women wacko?' bullshit. The olive-skinned man blinked his dark eyes slowly several times, shaking his head, as if he was trying to reassert reality before he turned back to Nell.

"Finish the transfer, Mrs. Copeland," he said, his tone all business. Nell did so, mentally crossing her fingers again, hoping that Eric was there, to both load the appropriate fake webpage, but maybe also delay the loading, stall a little more.

Just a little more... right? How much time could it possibly take. It was dark in the warehouse or wherever they were, but surely they couldn't have been unconscious for more than a few hours. Surely, they were still somewhere on the grid enough that the signal, although likely scrambled and bounced around by such a sly thief as the Marten, would be traceable. And help wouldn't be too far off when Eric determined where to send the back up... right?

The little timer swirled and the 'transfer successfully made' page loaded, a little bit quicker than Nell had hoped for, but not much she could do about that. Maybe it meant the team was already on their way... Maybe? Please?

The Marten already had a cell phone at his ear, leaning over her shoulder. Shit, he was moving too fast. Panicked, she glanced to Callen. _What should they do now?_

Because he had been right, as soon as their captor tried to confirm the transfer, they were as good as dead.

Callen's expression, for the first time in... well, ever, really, was _not_ reassuring. That man always had a plan. Okay, she knew he didn't _always_ have a plan, but he sure was good at making shit up on the fly, and always with a confidence that masked any doubts or insecurities he may possess. _Trust your training_ was his motto, and it was also how he seemed to live his life; all on instinct.

So seeing him doubtful was the most terrifying part of this entire experience so far. More than those three inch heels and that dress that was so tight she couldn't wear a bra. More than that big goon coming at her. More than waking up in the dark, tied to a chair. More than the threat of imminent death as The Marten read off the transaction number to his man over the phone, his face growing as hard as bedrock as he listened to the response that doubtlessly was of the variety that he'd been conned.

"Merci, Lucien," the man said, before ending the call and slipping the smart phone back into his suit coat pocket. Funny, Nell hadn't noticed before that the Frenchman had changed out of his tuxedo into a more generic businessman suit, albeit still an expensive looking tailored number.

Gulp.

There was a moment of complete silence. Nell wasn't sure how long it lasted, only that it felt like an eternity. Okay, not an eternity, because it was more like how people described near-death situations, her life flashing before her eyes. It was lamentably uneventful. Although, this was arguably the most eventful part, and it had resulted in her life flashing before her eyes. So maybe, _eventful_ was indeed not all it was cracked up to be?

Oh, god, it definitely wasn't!

The Marten had produced a handgun, a Beretta 92FS to be specific. Nell had familiarized herself with a variety of weapons as part of her go-getter, over-achiever, eager to be a field agent attitude. So even though she was only granted a very close-up view down the barrel at the moment, the brief flash of it she observed as he pulled it from the holster inside of his dark grey suit jacket gave her enough information to identify the pistol.

"Stop! She can still be useful to you!" Callen shouted, blatantly trying to refocus the threat upon himself. The Marten however kept his cold, dark gaze locked on Nell, the muzzle pointed unwavering at her face. Maybe if she was a real spy, she could disarm him. His hand with the pistol was within reach... only if she wasn't quick enough, he could squeeze a shot off... his finger was already teasing the trigger.

"Why am I to believe a word either of you say?" Their captor's voice had gone emotionless... Not a good sign. People did act out when overly emotional. But they also were more likely to be susceptible to things like sympathy and empathy, and maybe hesitate when considering pulling the trigger. Detachment was not a good sign, no. "You are a pair of conmen. And not particularly good ones."

He knew the money transfer was a farce. Obviously. But he'd assumed that they were fellow thieves and not federal agents. And maybe that could be used somehow to get them out of this. Nell couldn't seem to think how. But thankfully, her partner was a veteran field agent accustomed to 'fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants' operations. Oh, he could act all responsible senior agent, but Nell well knew Sam Hanna was the one that kept everything orderly and by-the-book. Well, more by-the-book than the team would've been running things if he hadn't been there to ameliorate and ground his friend's 'lone wolf' tendencies.

"We fooled you, didn't we?"

That did it. That drew the pompous, arrogant, narcissistic bastard's attention away from Nell. But to be honest, she didn't feel that much better when the Beretta was aimed at her friend-partner-mentor rather than herself.

Maybe she should jump him while his back was turned, try to disarm him? But she felt even less good about the likelihood of a shot getting off when the current direction of the muzzle was her friend's (and currently only life-line) head.

"Hardly," The Marten sneered. "You were sloppy. Your crew was obvious. Your attempts at alerting them equally so. You-"

He whirled back to Nell, lunging for the computer and pushing her out of the way with such force that she fell backward, her chair hitting the ground with a clatter, spilling her in a sprawl as she tried to roll and not bang her head. But she'd definitely bruised her shoulder on the unyielding concrete. Callen had shouted, his voice alarmed, but at least he'd called her 'Marion.'

"You've alerted your crew by accessing the fake bank account, haven't you?" The Marten whirled on her before she could pull herself together enough to attack him when he was off-guard. She considered giving it a try anyway, until she saw the large muscular men closing in on the little circle, one casting a shadow across her teal scrubs as he loomed over her. A glance informed her the other was standing menacingly behind where Callen was still bound to the metal chair.

"They'll be here any minute," she said without correcting him that it wasn't their 'crew' closing in but a team of trained federal agents. Callen apparently thought it was still wise to maintain cover, even if the nature of the back story had apparently shifted slightly to roll with the unexpectedly changing operation.

"And all they'll find is your dead bodies."

Oh, shit. Nell squeezed her eyes shut, as if not seeing it coming would make it less real.

"Wait! She can get you money!" Callen's voice cut through the pounding of blood in her ears, the tattoo of her terrified heart's rapid beating. She heard a radio crackle, the Marten barking hasty, angry words spoken in French. She could only make out one, _extraction_. And then, "You have ten seconds to explain, Mr. Copeland, if that is your real name."

"It is." Callen's voice was ridiculously calm. How could he remain so calm when they were about to be shot to death and left in the middle of god knows where for their friends to discover their gory corpses?! "And we're more than just run-of-the-mill grifters. At least, my wife is. Ever hear of the Boneffe job pulled last March?"

"You would have me believe that was your work?" Nell dared cracking an eye and hastily squeezed it shut again after seeing the completely incredulous look on the Frenchman's face.

"Yes. It's a highly encrypted, internally networked system. Not outside access. I had to infiltrate the physical location and place some strategic bugs. But Marion did the real work, hacking in and downloading the protected files."

"I do not believe you." The Marten's voice sounded uncertain, enough that Nell dared open her eyes again, feeling relieved when she saw the hint of doubt twitching his dark right eyebrow.

"Just test her," Callen said. "Give her a laptop, hell even a tablet with an internet connection and a bank account to hack, and she'll get in, transfer money to you."

The Marten seemed to be mulling this over as the his goons smashed the laptop on the cement floor and wiped down the metal folding table. A rumble that Nell had initially thought was her heart deciding to go all 'hummingbird' increased in volume until she recognized it as an external source, specifically an engine and the sound of moving tires. Headlights appeared like the glowing eyes of some beast and she realized that they were in what looked more like an abandoned parking garage than a warehouse as it came zooming towards them.

It was a classic kidnap van that screeched to a halt just a couple yards from where she still knelt on the cold concrete floor, closing her eyes tight once again and gritting her teeth at the appalling noise.

 _Note to self: Learn to keep eyes open._

Spies didn't try to just shut the world out when the going got tough. Nell opened hers wide to face her fate.

The Marten looked none too pleased. She thought he would've been happier about disposing of pests, but then she realized it was because Callen had somehow convinced the man to hang onto them for a little longer. At least, she was suddenly yanked off the floor, two large hands under her armpits lifting her to her feet, off her feet, dragging her towards the van.

But Callen was still tied to his chair, The Marten's Beretta pointed at his face.

 _Not his pretty face!_ The ridiculous thought popped into her desperately racing mind. Why was she so silly?!

"No!" she screamed, grabbing the metal of the doorframe as they tried to load her into the back of the van, proving herself quite a handful. She'd had pet cats, and well remembered how they'd successfully resisted being put into their carriers to go to the vet's. "I won't cooperate if you hurt my husband! Geoffrey!"

She saw the Marten throw his hands up, looking heavenward as he heaved the most theatrical sigh yet. For a criminal mastermind, he was rather overdramatic.

Remembering Mr. Cuddles' (a misnomer if there ever was one) favored form of resistance, Nell bit the goon who was trying to pry her fingers off the metal doorframe.

When she looked back to her undercover husband, he was being hauled to his feet as well, not with a happy expression for certain, yet when those blue eyes of his found hers, there was this mischievous glint, a slight smile twitching the corner of his mouth. And then the goon stopped struggling to get her into the van, stepping back to grab Callen from his cohort.

"Here, take your damned husband!" The not goon-worthy-but-still-more-substantial-than-Nell's-slight-frame agent was flung at her and she was forced to wrap her arms around the man for stability as they both rolled back into the van, feeling a little guilty that he ended up impacting the hard metal of the far side with his back.

Yet, still he managed to whisper in her ear, a little more amusement in his voice than she found strictly reassuring given their circumstances.

"Good work, Fawn."

Nell changed her mind. She wanted to murder the man herself.

* * *

 **A/N: Well, hope it was worth the wait. There of course, will be more…**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: I really am sorry, guys, for the delay. I just hadn't been feeling it. (But after rewatching 5x23 and writing up the tag Te Osculari Volo -and all of your wonderful responses and encouragement for that, my muse wandered back to Nell and Callen's corner. Good work, coaxing it back, people!)**

* * *

"Prove your worth, Mrs. Copeland."

A netbook was roughly shoved in her lap, and Nell had to bite her tongue not to snap back with some sarcastic reply. She'd definitely been stuck in Ops for too long. The only people she dealt with were her fellow 'nerds' and the team of agents that flourished in an environment of teasing and snark. Her natural response to any sort of rude behavior was to call the individual out on it with a snappy remark. And this was not the situation for it. Well, not wholly.

"This is useless unless we-"

"The van is its own wifi hotspot," The Marten cut her off. If he didn't have a dangerous look in his eye and two large goons sitting across from them in the back of the kidnap van (yes, definitely a kidnap van, as the crew of thieves had just proven), she would've thrown the ultra-thin laptop back in the man's face. It weighed barely over a pound, and the aluminum case had rounded corners, but she bet she could at least black his eye with it.

Apparently, her inclination to be uncooperative hadn't gone unnoticed, for she felt Callen's hand on her arm, steady and warm, and calming.

"It's okay, Marion," he said quietly. "Just work your magic."

Nell huffed her irritation as she opened the netbook. It was already setup and automatically logged itself into the mobile network.

"Where would you like me to withdraw funds from?" she asked, allowing herself to concentrate on the task at hand. This was just like any other day at the OSP. She was simply completing a computer-related task to allow the field agents to successfully finish their mission.

Only, she was one of the field agents this time. She'd been drugged and hit and threatened and thrown into a kidnap van. She's also had to wear high heels and a slinky dress. And pretend to be supercharming, superagent G Callen's wife. And she still might end up dead in the next few minutes if she just didn't-

Calm.

Callen's warm, steady hand squeezed her bicep reassuringly. He seemed to sense her panic. She glanced at him and he nodded his head at her, a silent order to proceed as instructed. His blue eyes were sympathetic, holding worry for her but no fear that she could see. Which was quite reassuring, even though it shouldn't be.

"Done," she said, after several minutes. Banks were supposed to be operating on a higher security level. But the thing was they employed the encryption software of just a select few, elite programming firms... And once you knew the basic format they favored... Well, Callen hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said she could be an asset to thieves.

She handed the laptop back to The Marten, and watched his response with mingled glee and terror. She shouldn't have done it, she knew. But she just couldn't help being a smartass, now could she? She'd held her tongue, but the rest of her wit just couldn't fricken resist being a little bit sardonically vindictive.

"What is the meaning of this?" The Marten tossed the netbook aside, raised a hand to smack her across the face, but the blow never landed. Rather she got a lapful of Callen as he leaned over her, grabbing the thief's forearm and staring the man down.

"Don't touch her," he said, his scary-angry voice making an appearance. It made goose bumps break out along her spine, and she wasn't even the target of that cold sort of rage she knew he was capable of. She almost expected him to react violently when the goons grabbed him and slammed him back down beside her.

"I will do what I like," The Marten said, making her flinch again in anticipation. But apparently, even G Callen outnumbered and seemingly helpless was enough of a threat to prevent the thieving (and kidnapping) bastard from hitting her. "And she will do what I say."

"She did what you asked," Callen said, and when his hand settled on her thigh, she could sense the tension in the agent. He was ready to strike out or respond with violence at any moment. It was not so calming. And yet eased the fear in her. She couldn't help but feel a little safe with him right beside her. The man was a survivor. And it was obviously important to him that she survived, too.

"She transferred one dollar," The Marten said, looking exasperated. Which was probably not good. If he considered them more of a hassle than they were worth, they might just end up lying dead in a ditch in the next few minutes. "That is not what I asked."

"You didn't specify the amount," Nell said. She was being as contrary as a small child throwing a tantrum, but she didn't care. This man was a jerk. And to hell with giving him an easy time of things.

The Marten made a frustrated noise. Callen laughed.

"That's what her excuse was when I said she could buy a dress for the gallery opening and came home with that expensive gown." He was obviously trying to defuse the tense situation that was teetering on the edge of an outbreak of violence. "But you saw her in that. I wasn't going to complain."

The Marten sighed, shaking his head. He ran his hands through his dark hair. Apparently he hadn't decided if her skills were worth having to deal with the difficult couple.

"We're here, boss," the driver called back as the van began to slow. A cockney accent. That was interesting. The rest of The Marten's 'crew' appeared to be French. Unless of course, it was all a farce, to disguise their true identities. She doubted those muscle-bound idiots' thick skulls could hold more than one language, however.

Their captor ran a hand over his face, sighing again.

"Bring them," he said to the goons who had slid the door of the van open, hopping out. Nell found herself dragged out of the vehicle that she'd been dragged into. (She was being dragged about an awful lot, lately. And tossed around, too. She didn't especially like it. She felt like a fricken pinball being roughly bounced around.)

There was a small jet parked on the otherwise quite vacant tarmac. It wasn't all that surprising that the man had his own private plane. And it looked prepared to take off as soon as it was boarded, a set of stairs pulled up to the open door.

She expected to be dragged up them, just to complete her pinball experience. (Or maybe she was being treated more like baggage. Maybe they'd be loaded into the bottom compartment of the plane, like cargo.)

But instead, The Marten halted his lackeys with a wave of a hand. And before she could even realize what was happening, he'd pulled out a Beretta from under his suit jacket and shot Callen in the stomach.

Someone screamed.

Nell knew it was her. Yet, everything had suddenly gone so surreal, she wasn't sure she could feel her body anymore. She watched in utter shock as a purple flower bloomed on the teal green of Callen's scrub top and the goons who had been holding his arms dropped him to the tarmac.

And went for her. She screamed some more, kicking and punching and biting, forgetting everything she'd ever been taught about fighting technique. It was hard to remember anything, think of anything, with G Callen lying on the mottled asphalt, adding his own fresh dark crimson stain to the faded ones of oil and grease and who-knew-what-else.

He seemed to be more in possession of his faculties than she was, however, pressing his hands firmly to his -oh, god- gushing bullet wound. And was he really, trying to get up? What the hell!?

"NO!" she screamed. If he went after them, they'd shoot him again. _Stay down_ , _damn it. For the love of god, stay down_. He seemed to reach the same conclusion about the situation, the futility of his desire to go after her as she was hoisted off her feet and carried up the stairs to the plane, still kicking and screaming.

It probably meant bad things for her, that The Marten was heartless and cruel. But she couldn't regret it, was almost grateful. Because he left her pseudo-husband bleeding out on the tarmac, casually following the goons dragging her thrashing, screaming, sobbing form onto the plane.

They hadn't killed G Callen. He was alive. They thought him good as dead. But they didn't know the man. He would survive.

Nell tried to reassure herself as her hands were cuffed together and she was thrown into leather seat in the private jet and buckled in. She wasn't sure why people preferred leather. Unless heated, it was cold, really cold. The thin cotton of the scrubs she'd been dressed did nothing to protect her from the cold that sunk in so, so deeply.

She blinked away the tears of terror and anger to find that The Marten (the sick, twisted bastard whom she was going to kill) had settled into a seat across from her, crossing his legs and slouching a little into the cold leather, which didn't seem to bother him. When he spoke, his tone was even and studied, but his eyes betrayed his interest despite his nonchalant attitude.

"Tell me then, who was this _Callen_? And who are _you_?"

Shit.

She'd screamed his name, hadn't she?

* * *

 **A/N: Well, that escalated quickly...How will Callen survive being shot (please, he's been shot way more times than that at once before and somehow lived)? What is the Marten going to do with Nell now that her cover is completely blown? Where's the rest of the team?**

 **A/N2: I think this is going to require a perspective shift for further telling… We'll probably follow Callen for the next chapter. (I mean, you know… if he survives…)**


End file.
